


My Father And His Father Before Him

by LilacSolanum



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcoholism, Binge Drinking, Emotional Abuse, Gen, Homophobia, Implied Drug Use, Kidnapping, all the content tags for a dorian pavus fic basically, brief mention of religious based homophobia, implied severe physical child abuse, lavender marriage, parental manipulation, parental supported corporal punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:02:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25276615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilacSolanum/pseuds/LilacSolanum
Summary: An exploration and expansion on Dorian's backstory, focused on Tevinter society, generational abuse, and the complexities of loving a cruel parent.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus & Halward Pavus, Gereon Alexius & Dorian Pavus, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 37
Kudos: 66
Collections: Actually Adoribull Fic





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [Cavatica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cavatica) and [Catie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/c_rowles) for beta-ing this, like, multiple times because I keep changing it and also forget to tell them which chapters need beta-ing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is heavy in terms of parental abuse, and can easily be skipped. Content warnings have been posted in the end notes and are detailed summaries of the scenes so that there are no surprises.

It began with a drawing of a marriage and a home, two men drawn inside a stack of a triangle and square, a five-year-old’s understanding of a house. His mother had been in the nursery there that day, dressed for an Archon’s ball in her own home. She was there every so often on pretense of spending time with her son, but in reality it was to track his developmental progress and assess the nanny’s performance.

Dorian painted freely with a thick brush dipped in vivid blue paint, unaware of the luxury of paper, of how wildly extravagant it was to give it to a child. His mother watched him impassively. Dorian thought she was admiring his work, but she was wondering if this was a talent or a whimsy, and if artistry would gain him status with the _altus_.

“Who are those men?” she asked, gesturing toward two stick figures standing in the house, two-thirds its size. 

“That’s me,” he said, and then he pointed to the man on the left. “And that’s my husband!”

Dorian waited for his mother’s reaction, hoping for approval. She wasn’t like papa, free with his praise. She was stiffer, harder to impress. Dorian liked his house. He hoped she liked it, too.

She did not praise him.

“Your what?” she asked, an edge to her voice that sank Dorian’s stomach.

“My husband?” said Dorian, repeating the word in the King’s Tongue. He was still confused as to why he had to learn another language, because he already knew all the right words in Tevene, but perhaps the reason was to help people understand things.

His mother’s lips pressed together, a straight line, disapproving. Dorian sat on his haunches, worrying at the brush in his hand. “Because grown ups have husbands,” he explained.

Aquinea laughed, uncaring that even children know the difference between laughing with and laughing at. “Oh Dorian. No, you will _be_ a husband. You will _have_ a wife.”

Dorian shook his head. “I don’t want a wife,” he said, pouting just a little. “I want a husband. You have a husband. Nanny has a husband. Dominus Horus and Dominus Acteon are husbands together!”

His mother clicked his tongue and rolled her eyes. “Horus and Acteon are fish merchants.”

Dorian frowned, wondering why that meant anything at all. “They are nice,” he said. “They give me candies when me and papa go to market.”

Aquinea was growing colder, more upset. “You are not a merchant. You will have a wife.”

Dorian knew he must not speak up to adults, but he was too confused to follow the rules. “But I want a husband.”

Aquinea’s eyes flashed with something Dorian could not understand. She looked at his nanny. “Is this the first time my son has spoken like this? Answer truthfully.” The nanny didn’t say anything right away. “Now,” snapped his mother, the threat of heavy consequences clear in her tone.

“He has—ah—well—all apologies, Mistress, it has come up once or twice before.”

“That is utterly unacceptable. Tell me you’ve discouraged him.”

His nanny looked terrified, and Dorian understood. His mother was scary sometimes. “For—forgive me for speaking plainly, Mistress, but I’m sure it’s only an amusing misunderstanding. He is but young.” Her eyes darted toward Dorian, then back to Aquinea. “If it is a worry, I will take action in the future.”

Aquinea walked toward Dorian, who was still holding his brush. She grabbed the paper from him, crumpling it into her fist, smudges of blue dirtying her gloves.

“You will not have a husband,” she said coolly. She left the room without another word.

Dorian burst into tears. His nanny knelt down next to him, wrapping him into her thin arms. He cried so long he left a wet stain on her shirt. When they parted, he realized she’d been crying too, and he had no idea why.

—-

Later that day, he was summoned by his father.

His father’s study was Dorian’s favorite place in all the world. Halward always kept it warm with magefire he tinted blue, reminding Dorian of the sea. There was a black armchair that was so old it was almost squishy, and it was the most comfortable chair Dorian had ever sat on. There were books everywhere. Dorian had learned to read alarmingly fast, racing through his teaching books, reading off sentences while he was still figuring out how to string them together on his own. He liked to lie on the floor while his father wrote his letters and read a randomly chosen book, unfamiliar with most of the words but loving it all the same.

When he walked in holding his nanny’s hand, it was much different than all the other times he’d been there. The fire was not blue, and his father was not welcoming and warm. He was stern, distant, even disappointed. Dorian looked to his nanny in a panic. She smiled in a way that was too sad to really be a smile. She knelt down next to him, and kissed his forehead.

“I will see you tomorrow,” she said. Her voice was strained.

“Okay,” said Dorian. He put his hands on his nanny’s cheeks and pulled her down. She laughed a little, and then dipped her head. Dorian kissed her forehead in return.

She straightened up, looked at his father, and nodded. The door shut behind her. 

Dorian would never see her again.

Halward rose from his desk. “Duckling,” he said, his words friendly but his tone not, “I heard that you fancy yourself a husband.”

Dorian swallowed thickly. He didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure what to say. He still didn’t know why everyone was so mad at him. When Dorian said nothing, Halward said, “Men cannot have husbands. They can only have wives.”

Dorian frowned. “Dominus Horus and—”

Halward sighed. “Merchants are not the descendants of Dreamers, and have no responsibility to their lines.”

Dorian loved his history lessons, and knew all about the Dreamers, the ancient mages that had spoken to the Old Gods. Dorian had some trouble understanding who the Old Gods were because they weren’t the Maker, but he accepted it all the same, and knew that it was an honor to be their descendent. He didn’t understand what that had to do with husbands and wives. “But Marcus helps his fathers make the change.”

“Marcus is not of their blood.” Dorian did not respond. Sometimes his father used words Dorian didn’t know, but this time he understood all the words, just not what they meant all together like that.

Realization flashed over Halward’s face, and then he grimaced. “Oh. _Fasta vass_ ,” He fell down into the overstuffed chair, and slid his hands down his face. 

“Daddy! You can’t say that!”

Halward released his face with a pained expression. “You’re right. That was naughty of me.” He took a deep breath. “Only a boy and a girl can make a baby.”

“But Marcus—”

“Yes, yes, but he—Andraste preserve me, he was, uh, given to them, by a different man and a woman.”

“Why?”

“Never you mind why! Simply understand that you must have a wife, so you can make more Pavuses, just like mommy and daddy made you.”

Dorian stared at his father, uncomprehending. Halward clenched his jaw, and he blew air out of his nose, frustrated. Then, he smiled. 

He crouched down next to Dorian. “Duckling,” said his father, “Let’s make lights.”

Dorian’s eyes went wide and he grinned wildly, bouncing a little. His magic had appeared a year ago, young, even for an altus, and everyone had been very impressed. But Dorian already knew all about the demons, had been told and warned about them so early in his life that they had always been fact, and he had no specific memory of the first time he had heard the word ‘demon.’ His father had given him a warding ring, and told him Dorian must never use magic unless a grown up said it was okay, because the ring wouldn’t work very well if Dorian kept casting. Sometimes his mother asked him to make fire for their guests, and that was good, because he felt powerful and praised. But the best was making lights with papa.

Halward lay down on the floor. Dorian giggled at the sight, excited for playtime and amused at how his robes fanned out over the carpet, silly, undignified. Dorian nestled next to him, his tousle of wavy black hair landing on his father’s shoulder. Halward took off Dorian’s ring. His finger felt strange without it, too light, off balance. 

Halward raised up a hand, and shimmering wisps rose from his fingertips, bright red, swirling in the air like smoke. He created more light, a darker green and white, and they joined the red above. With a slight twitch of his fingers, the colors grew bolder, and the wisps took more form. They twisted around each other, turning into a rope of light, and eventually formed a circle. Red clouds swirled around it, forming first rough shapes, then becoming roses.

Dorian joined in the cast. While Halward’s movements were small and controlled, Dorian was wild and wide, young and untrained and using his whole body for focus. His lights never took shape, remaining formless and dull. They chased his father’s rose vine all the same, sometimes almost looking yellow. Dorian began to buzz.

Halward grinned. “Are you making bees?” he asked. Dorian buzzed louder in response.

Halward waved his hand, and the rose vine disappeared. He replaced it with a large embrium. Dorian created a bigger “bee,” though it was nothing more than a lumpy circle. Still buzzing, Dorian erratically moved his bee toward the flower on a wiggling, jerking path, not because Dorian was mimicking a bee intentionally, but because that was the best Dorian could manage. Just before the “bee” landed, Halward’s flower bent away. “Hey!” shouted Dorian.

The “bee” chased the flower for quite some time, Halward’s laughter joining his son’s. When Halward finally let the bee rest, he let go of his lights in a spectacular explosion, colors bursting and dancing like sparks.

When all the magelight died down, and Halward summoned fire back to the candles. He grinned at Dorian mischievously, then reached over and tickled him. Dorian laughed without reservation, delighted and warm, and when Halward stopped he nestled his head on his father’s chest. His father wrapped an arm around him, and the feelings of merriment began to slowly turn to exhaustion.

Halward pressed him closer. “When I was your age, I could not make the lights dance,” he said. “I could only cast small bursts, with no color. They stuck mid air, and would not move.”

“Your lights are the best!” said Dorian, offended that Halward would dare suggest he had ever been less than perfect.

“Only because I’m an adult, and I worked very hard in the Circle. I am not a strong mage,” said Halward without much fanfare, the fact old and no longer interesting. He squeezed Dorian again, and Dorian turned toward him, burying his face in his father’s side and closing his eyes. “But your mother was a Thalrassian before she became a Pavus, and Thalrassians are very strong mages, so therefore, you are. Do you see?”

Dorian hesitated, then nodded. He didn’t see, not really, but agreeing with grown ups was better than disagreeing, and he was tired. Halward adjusted his arm, and stroked Dorian’s hair.

“That is why you cannot have a husband,” he said softly. “You must find a woman to complement what you lack, and make with her strong, beautiful children of Dreamers.”

“Okay,” said Dorian, his tiny voice blurred with sleep. They lay there for a moment, Dorian nodding off, his father staring at the ceiling.

Eventually, Halward nudged Dorian. “Get up,” he said. “You are getting too old for me to carry to bed.”

Dorian groaned, but he complied. He rubbed at his eyes. Then, in the way of children unlearned in the delicacies of decorum, Dorian said, “Do you love mother?”

Something changed in Halward’s expression, something Dorian would not comprehend for years. He flinched. Had he said something wrong? Was he in trouble?

“Your mother,” said Halward slowly, “Is my ally.”

Dorian pressed his lips shut and avoided his father’s eyes. 

—

Years later, Dorian found that his mother was not his ally.

She had little to say about the mess at Carastes Circle, though his father didn’t, either. In a way, it made the Pavus family look good. While Dorian’s violence had been technically unprovoked, Dorian had revealed that Atalanta Glysias had been demanding degrading things of slaves, forcing them to perform silly acts for the amusement of her and her friends after lights out. That reflected poorly on House Glysias, and people were asking how the Glysias family raised their children. Aquinea used her son’s integrity for social leverage. Halward was secretly proud.

Of course, behind closed doors, the _altus_ had their opinions about the Pavus boy’s reaction to a bit of childhood fun. Atalanta had received only a six week suspension, and Dorian had been expelled.

A young _laetan_ tutored Dorian for the rest of the year. She was impatient with Dorian when he read ahead of their lesson, and she declined the Pavus family’s offer to return.

Dorian was sent to another Circle, where Atalanta’s brother worked as a senior enchanter. He openly mocked Dorian during classes, lied to other enchanters about his behavior, and sabotaged his grades. Dorian told the other enchanters, but while they took sympathy on him, they told him to wait it out. Dorian tried to be graceful, but in the end, he found an error in a lesson, and exposed it with searing mockery far beyond his eleven years. He was sent home for insubordination.

His father lectured him, and banished him to his room for a month. His mother did not speak to him during this time, not even during dinners. It was not petty or pointed. He had disappointed her, so he was now simply uninteresting to her. 

Dorian disliked his next tutor even more than the first. She quit. So did the next one.

In the spring, Dorian was sent to Neromenian to attend his new Circle. A year and a half later, Dorian was sent home. 

Halward raged, and Aquinea silently watched.

“You are draining our coffers and our standing. I am beginning to wonder if you’re worth it at all!”

Dorian clenched his fists so hard, he felt his nails dig into his skin. He didn’t plan on talking back to his father. He barely even knew it was an option. But the words burst forth from him unbidden, sparked by all the other adults in his life who didn’t seem to listen or care. “Ah yes, the royals! I should have thought of our precious royals while Raguel drained a slave to near death to cast euphoria spells on his comrades!”

Halward’s eyes grew wide, flaring with an anger Dorian had never seen before. He flinched, but he did not take back his words, did not stand down. He knew what he’d done was right. He was proud, even though his father was red in the face.

“You dare speak to me as if we are equals?” Halward hissed. “I suppose you think yourself a magister! You have carried out judgement of your classmates often enough!”

“It was Raguel Erimond at the Erimond Circle! I told the enchanters, and they did nothing!”

The pain came before the understanding. Dorian’s face flared with it, sharp, a tingling feeling in the aftermath. Then, the realization that his father’s open palmed hand had lashed out toward him settled in his mind. His father’s arm fell to his side.

The regret on Halward’s face was immediate and undeniable, but the deed had been done. Dorian looked frantically at his mother, shocked, craving and needing guidance.

Very carefully, very primly, Aquinea smoothed out her gown and stood. She left the room, expressionless, almost bored. Dorian watched her go, and the memory would stick with him for the rest of his life in perfect detail, clearer than his father’s strike, because at least his father had shown remorse. 

Dorian watched her go, dazed, unbalanced from the slow and terrible realization that to her, he was more Pavus than son.

He looked back at his father. He looked tired, and old, and suddenly very mortal. 

“My father used to burn me when I misbehaved.” Halward’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “Go to your room, and thank the Maker that I am a better man than him.”

— 

Dorian was sent home from the next Circle for being caught with a boy.

A slave hit his back with a cane seven times, a common punishment for a severe offense, one that his parents had once scoffed at and called immoral. Aquinea watched. Halward didn’t. When it was done, she knit his skin, straightened out her skirts, and told him to go to his room.

Aquinea was unapologetic for her heartlessness, uncaring in her emptiness. Dorian knew, then, that he was not a son to her, but a duty she was unhappy to perform.

— 

He was more careful after that, exploring sex in shadowed corners with men more shamed than he was at their urges, and they transferred it to him with every cold word, every denied kiss. He refused to become them, anxious and self-hating, but he had been stained all the same. It appeared when Dorian’s thoughts wandered, sounding like metal hitting his flesh, looking like his father’s face.

— 

There had been two more Circles, all with their corruptions, all with their injustices. Dorian could not stomach any of them.

His father had sent him to the Order of Argent as a last resort, a Chantry focused Circle that took the Chant of Light to an extreme and twisted place. Dorian found it abhorrent and perverted.

Halward had been abundantly clear that this was his last chance. Halward said he was tired of wasting the Pavus fortune on Dorian, tired of excuses, tired of embarrassment. Dorian could not bear his father’s red-hot rage again. If he was to be disowned, he’d rather be disowned without the production.

He left the Circle in the middle of the night, wrapped in shadow-bending spells far beyond his education, with no plan other than escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the first section, Dorian is five, and painting a picture. His mother discovers he envisions his future with a husband, and gets angry. She destroys his painting.
> 
> In the next section, Halward confronts Dorian about his idea of a husband. It is heavily implied Halward and Aquinea have sold Dorian's nanny. Dorian and Halward share a very sweet moment, but Halward is instilling homophobia in Dorian the entire time.
> 
> Dorian starts to attend Circles. He gets expelled numerous times for standing up for himself. He starts to talk back to his parents, and Halward slaps him. Halward alludes to his own physical abuse at the hand of his father.
> 
> The next Circle that expels Dorian had found him with another boy. Aquinea watches as a slave canes Dorian, which is normal in olde tyme fake-Rome, but something Halward and Aquinea have sworn never to do. There is a brief section addressing Dorian discovering sex in a homophobic society.
> 
> Dorian gets kicked out of the last resort Circle his father has forced him into and runs away.


	2. Chapter 2

Dorian knew he had been at Floridus, which wasn’t the sort of whorehouse Dorian had used to patronize when he first began to explore such establishments, filled with men as gorgeous as its staff was discreet. Floridus made its mark by being so cheap and so filthy that often what you saved at the brothel, you later spent at the healers. It was often visited by  _ alti _ looking for one thing or another. If they happened to see another _ altus  _ there, well, one secret canceled out another.

The unspoken code of mutual debauchery was not what had brought Dorian to Floridus. Dorian’s secret taste for men was his father’s concern, not his. Dorian was there because he was completely out of money.

That played a significant part in the holes of Dorian’s memories. He had run out of things to sell, and wouldn’t have enough money to pay for his rat-infested room after this week. Dorian had to make a choice between one last hurrah or food, and he didn’t struggle with it for long. He had gone to Floridus starving, and had filled his belly with ale.

He knew he could make more money. No one knew his name, but his accent and carefully-bred looks betrayed his class, and that betrayed his magic. He’d been approached by a few underground organizations, and had been offered decent sums for his services. Low for an  _ altus_, but money was money was money when one had nothing.

Dorian Pavus, descendant of the Dreamers, of Thalrassian blood and able to manipulate the Fade at age four, was so unable to control his righteous temper and general degeneracy that tomorrow morning he would be joining the fucking carta.

Floridus had seemed the perfect place to celebrate.

Now, waking up in an unfamiliar room with the worst hangover he’d ever had, he regretted the decision just a bit. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and drift back to sleep, especially because the idea of moving was utterly unimaginable. But he could tell from the sheets alone that whoever owned this home had money, and that meant they had likely figured out he was a Pavus. 

Perhaps his House meant little to his host. There was always the chance they had enjoyed a night of—entanglement, for lack of a better word. Dorian had little memory of the evening, but he assumed nothing particularly unbecoming had happened. He’d had nights of rough, clumsy, drunken sex, and he was familiar with the resulting aches. However, there were many other ways for two men to have a lovely evening.

But with a guest room this elaborate, he was most likely in an  _ altus _ home, and that meant favor could be gained for returning the errant House Pavus heir. Either way, Dorian wanted to be gone as quickly as possible.

He was nothing if not stubborn, even in matters of his own body. He forced himself out of bed, looked around, identified a chamber pot, and neatly vomited in it with the practice of a seasoned drinker. When that matter was taken care of, Dorian peeked around the room to see if his benefactor had left him elfroot or water. Both were on a serving platter next to the bed. He sipped them slowly, one after another, mindful of his still-rolling stomach. He lay back down when he was done, intending to catnap while the medicine worked his way through him, and prayed he wouldn’t completely fall back asleep.

Dorian never had the chance. Someone knocked on the door. Dorian groaned and sat back up, running a hand through his hair, gathering himself as best he could. “You may come in,” he said, assuming it was a slave. He hoped they would give him information on how to find a hidden carriage prepared to whisk him away without being seen, a well established practice among the more considerate  _ alti_, ambitious  _ laetans_, and certain merchants when they fell into illicit affairs. Dorian was very much hoping for that outcome, because he may not have actually made it to the other side of town if he had to walk.

The person who ended the room wore a black robe lined with gold threads, and his boots shined with disuse. This was no slave.

It took Dorian some time to recognize Magister Gereon Alexius. He was familiar with House Alexius in the way he was familiar with every  _ altus  _ bloodline, and was a fan of Gereon’s work in force magic, but they had never spoken. It was known their son was nearly without magic, yet they insisted he remain their heir. Had Dorian gone home with the son? Felix was attractive enough. Shy, and often in Orlais, but overall kind. Lord Alexius must be here to threaten him to stay quiet—or perhaps to bribe him, which would be ideal.

With effort, he forced himself to stand, and then, with even more effort, he forced himself to smile, as charming and cocky as he could manage. “Magister Alexius!” he effused. “Your estates are quite lovely, I must say.” 

Alexius was unamused. “What do you remember of last night, Lord Dorian?”

“The sterling company?” said Dorian. “Fascinating conversation with a shockingly intelligent and charming peer?” 

Alexius snorted indelicately. “You did fascinate,” he said, and Dorian blinked in surprise. He hadn’t been with the son?

Dorian shifted away from Alexius just slightly. “And exactly how fascinating was I?” asked Dorian, keeping his voice light and airy. His expression was neutral, but his hands clutched at the bedspread. Two young lords making the mistakes of youth was one thing, but the sort of man that would take home a vulnerable man for himself was another. Dorian suddenly hoped that Magister Alexius really was intending to blackmail his father. That would be simpler.

He seemed to follow Dorian’s thought process. “You dazzled in conversation alone,” Alexius said softly. “I brought you home to keep you safe.”

Dorian’s whole body relaxed. “Ah. Thank you, then.”

Alexius put a hand on Dorian’s shoulder. There was no ill intent in it, just paternal concern. For a moment, Dorian felt that small kindness like a knife to his stomach, cold and cruel. It had been a long time since anyone had looked out for him, and Dorian had ached for it so keenly that now receiving goodwill felt like mockery.

Alexius lifted his hand and smiled fondly, unaware of Dorian’s inner reflections. “When I walked into Floridus, you were standing on a chair, passionately explaining the many ways a bound Desire demon can liven up the bedroom. The patrons were unamused.” 

Dorian looked down at his feet, strangely contrite. “Sounds like me. I do so like to lecture.”

“Your pants were also half-undone, and your shirt hung off your wrist by a sleeve.”

“Is that not the dress code?”

Alexius laughed softly, more acknowledgment than mirth. “I heard you were sent to the Order of Argent. It seems it did not agree with you.”

“Part of my plan to attend every Circle in Tevinter!” said Dorian brightly. “I believe there’s one left in Nessum.” And Dorian would burn down all of Minrathous before moving that far south.

“I went to the Order of Argent, you know.”

“Oh?” said Dorian. The sun was coming through the windows in an aggressively bright manner, hitting high noon, exasperating Dorian’s aches. His evasive demeanor slipped. “What was your favorite part? The endless vigils? The utter lack of real education in favor of chanting? Sister Adrianna’s breath?”

Alexius laughed again, this time with more humor. “Oh yes. All of that. I was particularly fond of their teachings of Andraste as the Maker’s bride.”

Dorian snorted indelicately. Vyrantium taught that the Maker was a man and Andraste his bride, and thus all marriages must be between a man and a woman. When Dorian argued against this, he was admonished. When he didn’t stop, he was brought to a windowless room and locked in there for two days. It taught Dorian nothing. It only changed his focus from pushing against the Sisters to escaping them entirely. 

It then occurred to Dorian that if Alexius had found him at Floridus, then Alexius had stepped inside Floridus himself. Slowly, he shifted his gaze toward him. Alexius nodded, confirming Dorian’s silent question.

“Well,” said Dorian, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Give your wife my condolences.”

“There is no need,” said Alexius. “She is well aware of my comings and goings. She never wanted a physical relationship, and is thrilled I don’t want one with her.”

“How very romantic,” said Dorian.

“It is,” said Alexius earnestly. Dorian looked at him, and saw his face filled with resolve. “She is my favorite person in all of Thedas.”

Dorian sighed and ran his hands over his face. He had been talking to Alexius for all of five minutes, and feeling a small connection with him had immediately led to disappointment. He should have known. “I have no intention of taking a bride and cuckolding her for the honor. I’d like to go home now, if you please.”

Alexius folded his hands over one another, looking at Dorian with the expected patience of someone who knew the answer to an unasked question. “And where is home?”

Dorian had nothing to say.

“Your parents are worried about you,” said Alexius. “There is quite a reward for your return.”

Dorian snapped his gaze to Alexius, his eyes going wide. Had expected his parents to wave away their failure, to bury Dorian’s absence in some excuse and name his cousin Alcander as their heir. Instead, they had announced it, and even offered money to bring their son home. Hope leaked from the desperate corner of his heart where Dorian held such silly things, and Dorian had a brief fantasy of a warm welcome, of his father extending an understanding, of an apology. It was fleeting, because Dorian would not fuel it with further comforting daydreams. He’d had them too often before, and they never came true.

“They have something to prove, then. They will not want me, and I will not go back to them.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” said Alexius, “But I understand why you believe it.”

Dorian was seventeen, all limbs and dry skin and hormones, and his body gave way to tears so suddenly it was like collapsing. His sobs were like an infant’s: gasping, gulping, his whole body shuddering, not thinking but feeling. 

And Alexius held him through it all, guiding him to sit on the bed, pressing him to his chest, running a hand up and down his back, saying, “Child. Oh, child,” over and over again. Dorian should have chafed at the words. He didn’t.

When Dorian felt himself again, he pulled away from Alexius, wiping at his eyes with his sleeves. Tears always left him feeling hollowed out, but this time they left him sick, his stomach churning. Crying was one thing, crying while terribly hungover was another. He very well might  vomit  again on Magister Alexius’s lap. He pressed his face into his palms, willing his body to still. “Kind of you to indulge that display,” he sniffed. “It won’t happen again. If you’re giving me back to my father, I’d appreciate you getting on with it.” —so that Dorian had time to plan, and to figure out how to escape.

Alexius had left an arm wrapped around Dorian’s shoulders, a lingering memory of the comfort Dorian had so stupidly allowed himself. “Is that what you want?” asked Alexius.

“Obviously not.”

“Fair enough,” said Alexius. He finally disconnected from Dorian, and Dorian was equally as glad for the separation as he was sad that the comforting touch was gone. Alexius stood up straight, his shoulders back, suddenly formal. “I’d like to offer you an apprenticeship,” he said.

The words scrambled in Dorian’s mind, so out of the blue and unthinkable he couldn’t quite understand them. “What?” he asked.

Alexius folded his hands behind his back. There was a change in him, barely noticeable but sudden all the same, and he seemed to retreat inside himself. His eyes dulled. “My father held views similar to your father, though I know Magister Pavus well enough to say the former Magister Alexis was more—well. He is gone now. When it became clear Felix was hardly a mage, Livia had little tolerance for his threats against our son, and she made sure he could never make good on them.” Alexius gave his head a slight shake, freeing himself of whatever thoughts might have risen. “Regardless, I don’t want to send you back to those restrictions anymore than you want to return to them. You're confident and bold. I’ll admit I’ve admired you for some time now.”

“You’ve admired me?” said Dorian, so shocked his tone was derisive.

“Somewhat,” said Alexius with a smile. “Your preference for men is often whispered about behind closed doors, people gossiping like Orlesians. Yet your attempts at discretion have been…obtuse. It is almost as if you don’t care.”

“I don’t.”

“And that’s why I admire you.”

In that moment, all at once, relief overtook Dorian. Halward Pavus had raised Dorian with integrity and kindness, and when Dorian refused to blind himself to cruelty, his father had soured his own lessons. Never before had anyone praised Dorian for not denying his desires because the  _ alti  _ had antiquated ideals. Never before had anyone looked at Dorian, saw his conviction, and liked what they saw. It was an unfathomable thing, and yet here was Gereon Alexius, freely accepting him as if it were that simple.

Dorian found himself craving Alexius’s approval so suddenly, so harshly, that he yearned.

He wanted to say something aloof. It was the way of these things among the  _ alti_. Never accept an offer immediately, no matter what it was, no matter if you both knew you would take it. It showed a lack of power, and weakness in Tevinter was as good as death.

Instead, boyish and small, Dorian said, “Do you mean that?”

“Of course, child,” said Alexius.

—

Alexius immediately wrote House Pavus an offer letter and sent it with a slave, instructing him to run it as quickly as possible, “as if it were your own child who had been missing.” Dorian was told to rest, which he did gratefully for the next few days. Sleep was a wonderful alternative to worrying about his father’s response.

—

  
  


Halward Pavus gave his reply in person.

Dorian went to see him at the entrance of the Alexius estates with his gut twisted in a violent fist. He’d never felt this much anxiety before in his life. He felt physically pained.

Then his father embraced him.

“I am so, so, so happy you are safe,” Halward whispered, his voice shaking uncomfortably.

Immediately, Dorian felt conflicted. It was as if Halward had suddenly decided their battles had never happened, when Dorian had spent the last year living in the memory of them. Dorian held himself rigid, wanting to react with affection, wishing he wasn’t resentful.

He scanned the room for his mother. She wore the impractical travel clothes of an  _ altus  _ Lady, delicate lace and flowing skirts, a perfect, unfeeling portrait. She nodded at him. Dorian supposed that was something.

Dorian cleared his throat. “I don’t plan on making running away a habit,” he said and tried to pull away. Halward only tugged him closer. Dorian couldn’t remember the last time he’d been hugged by his father, nevermind smothered. “Truly, I won’t,” he said, desperate to lighten the mood. “Have you ever walked through an alienage? The smell is as if  vomit  and nightsoil farted in tandem. I will dedicate the rest of my life to avoiding the experience.”

Halward pulled away, and Dorian physically flinched as his father’s expression melted into a deeper regret. “Oh, Dorian,” he whispered. “You can always come home.”

Dorian believed him.

“Please come inside, Magister Pavus,” said Alexius. “How was your journey? The weather has been particularly dry lately.”

Alexius guided the Pavuses and their retinue inside. Dorian followed blindly, feeling as if he’d overindulged in his father’s love, like eating too many sweets, unsatisfied and slightly sick.

—

Halward readily agreed to the terms of Alexius’s apprenticeship, and Dorian, with no one trying to trim and prune him into a shape he refused to grow into, blossomed.

Alexius let Dorian set his own pace with his studies, slowing him only if he felt Dorian had slipped on his basics. He made sure Dorian could hold his own in every traditional field and had read all the standards, and he took the time to explain the merits of this knowledge instead of telling him it was what had to be done and ignoring his protestations. When Dorian expressed interest in necromancy as a specialty, Alexius accepted it without question, and found Dorian a  _ mortalitasi  _ mentor before his father’s letter of quiet disapproval had a chance to arrive.

As a favor to Alexius, Dorian was more careful in his affairs. Over the years, his past transgressions had been all but forgotten. He had been young, which allowed for a certain amount of tolerance, and there were plenty of other scandals to entertain gossiping  _ alti. _ He became respectable. Respected, even.

Dorian still pushed against unspoken social laws. He had no patience for politely talking around certain subjects, and would directly name suspected supporters of the rising Venatori movement while everyone else whispered. He challenged known blood mages at their own parties. He brought up corruption at every opportunity, and remembered everyone who rolled their eyes.

Some despised him for his boldness, but many admired him, and they would sometimes tell him so in secret. It was proof there was good in the Imperium, and that the vocal minority had been too loud for too long. Dorian committed himself to coaxing voices out of those who had been intimidated into silence, and acted the good heir just enough to give him that chance. Overall, he was thought of as clever but quirky, and it was assumed he would settle with age.

He aggressively pursued friendship with Maevaris Tilani, who accepted him easily, and praised his daring. She invited him over for dinner often, and one night he had quite a bit more wine than she did, and he told her how much she inspired him.

“If you can take a dwarven husband and go unchallenged, then so can I!” he said, flushed and rambling. “Well. Not necessarily dwarven, though not necessarily _ not  _ dwarven. Is it true what they say of the girth?”

She said she would not discuss such matters, but her smile gave Dorian a different answer. 

That night, as Maevaris led him to the guest quarters, carrying the majority of his weight, Dorian said, “We are going to change everything. We must. It all has to change.”

“A delightfully grand statement. Get some rest, dear,” said Maevaris fondly.

“Never!” Dorian declared. “Not until all this bloodline nonsense is dealt with, when the publicanium stands equal with the magisterium, when the abuse of slaves is punished and not ignored, when we no longer think ourselves better than our southern neighbors for their abhorrent mage prisons, but think ourselves better because we are better!” Then Dorian lost his balance, even with Maevaris’s guidance, fell into a candelabra, and broke his nose.

He held on to his principles all the same.

—

In Tevinter, if it could be arranged, Funalis was celebrated with one’s blood kin. While Dorian went to see his parents, Livia and Alexius would travel to Orlais to retrieve Felix and shop in Val Royeaux. The holiday week was pleasant enough now that the Pavuses were not ashamed of their son, but they knew without him saying that Dorian had no intention of truly conforming, and avoiding the topic was exhausting. Dorian knew he would get through it, go back to the Alexius estates, and get Orlesian presents.

This year, Dorian came home to gifts of perfumed oils, wine, cheese, Livia’s death, and Felix’s disease.

—

Dorian had never seen a grown man cry before, but cry Alexius did, in soft little mewls, over and over for weeks.

—

It had once seemed logical. There had been five Blights without a cure, but there had been time between them, time for magic to develop, for techniques to be discovered, for man to evolve. The Enchanters in Tevinter had merely eyed the Fereldan Blight warily, waiting to see how far it went. They watched as the Hero of Ferelden sacrificed herself, and they continued with their lives.

Why not find a cure? Why not now, when magical progress was at its highest, when Tevinter glittered with the Fade? And why not Gereon Alexius and Dorian Pavus, whose preliminary papers on time magic had already caused a stir in the Circles, and they had still more discoveries to share?

They saw less and less of Felix as the Blight took more and more of him. They visited him briefly for pleasantries and samples before disappearing again to their lab. Once they had toyed with time, and now they raced it, legs aching, lungs burning.

After two years, Felix took a turn for the worse.

—

The healer stayed by Felix’s side, casting spell after spell, gulping lyrium like an addled Andrastrian templar. When the healer ran out, he leeched mana from Dorian, then Alexius, then Dorian again in turn.

There was one more way to grab at easy power. They did not speak of it.

Alexius was no monster.

Felix was so near death, he smelled of it. 

The healer’s last cleansing spell died out. Dorian heard birds singing outside the windows with full clarity, and he resented them for their normalcy. How dare they spread cheer, when Felix was so far gone. Felix was the kindest man Dorian had ever known. This wasn’t right. This couldn’t be right.

Very softly, knowing she was handling a delicate thing, the healer said, “I can take away his pains, wake him, and give you time alone.”

Dorian was not overcome with despair. He did not launch into grief, did not embarrass himself with tears. He couldn’t. When the healer spoke, her tone so final and pitying, Dorian felt all his thoughts slip away. He closed his eyes, leaned against the wall, and felt nothing.

“Dorian,” said Alexius, his voice stone. Dorian opened his eyes and looked to his mentor, confused. Alexius should be despondent. He should not look so determined. “Leave.”

“What?” said Dorian, too heavy with the gnawing nothingness of grief to understand. 

“Leave us,” said Alexius. Alexius knew that Dorian wanted to be with Felix during the worst of it, just as Alexius did. To send him away was a betrayal.

“I will not, I have—”

“LEAVE!” shouted Alexius. Alexius’s words echoed around Felix’s chambers, not a command, but a law. The healer flinched.

Dorian did not know how he knew, but there was a shift in this moment, and life as he knew it had irrevocably changed. 

So, Dorian left, slamming the door behind him. He went to the kitchens, demanded a bottle of whatever they had that would get him drunk. He drank until he passed out, mana-drained and unfed, unable to finish the bottle. The cooking sherry slipped from his hand and stained his robes.

The next morning, a slave woke him, informing him that Felix’s fever had broken. When the news managed to pierce through Dorian’s sleep-coated brain, he was elated. He was also suspicious, oddly nervous, and very afraid.

This slave was not the one who normally ran Alexius’s messages. Dorian wondered how she was doing and pretended he didn’t already know.

—-

Three days later, Dorian was called to Alexius’s study.

He’d been there before, but it somehow felt like a new room. The lighting, perhaps, or maybe Alexius had rearranged some things. There was an odd smell hanging in the air, not entirely unpleasant, but something Dorian immediately disliked. 

Alexius was sitting at his desk, hollow eyed, his robes so ill-fitting they crumpled over his body as if tossed on the floor. Dorian frowned. He had lost weight, they both had, but he had never noticed how disturbingly thin Alexius had gotten. The bones of his cheeks stood so far out of his skin that they looked dangerous, like dungeon spikes.

Dorian’s mind tossed him glib remarks—“My, Alexius, you look fit for a ball! Providing it’s a ball for starved mabari, that is.” “If you’re halfway to becoming an Abomination, please let me know, I’d like to grab the finer bits of cookware before you start destroying things.” “I see this season’s fashion is ‘darkspawn in autumn.’ Daring!” He dismissed them with guilt, upset at himself for finding mockery in Alexius’s despair.

In the end, he said, “You look unwell.”

“We have been foolish,” said Alexius. “The Blight cannot be cured.”

Dorian paused. “I know,” he said. 

“If we had simply stayed our course with time—but we didn’t. So now we must.”

It made sense. They were wasting their talents on well-tread ground, only slightly improving old research. The Blight was magical in nature, but it was a disease in practice, and two untrained healers could only go so far. 

Before their obsession with the Blight, they had been making strides with time. Theoretical, yes, but they’d already improved on temporal distortions. Perhaps the research would not help Felix, but their spells could one day save the lives of others, especially in battle.

But Dorian knew that was not why Alexius was suggesting they adjust their focus.

“Let’s not replace one fantasy with another,” he said.

Alexius stood up slowly, walking to a bookshelf. He fussed with it until something clicked. “We have always said the Fade itself does not understand time as a linear construct, which is why requests to manipulate it go unheard. We once surmised that if one had enough power, one could summon a high spirit and corrupt it with knowledge, thus creating a sort of temporal demon that could be bound. Correct?”

“That is one theory, yes,” said Dorian slowly. “It hinges on the existence of high spirits at all—”

“Which we have more than enough evidence to prove—”

“And an decidedly unattainable amount of power.”

“We both know there are ways to nurture our powers. Do not pretend you have not thought of them.”

Dorian sighed. He’d calculated it all, of course. Blood magic made him sick to his stomach, but he couldn’t help but be curious, and there was no harm in research. “To summon the spirit alone, you’d have to kill off half the Imperium, and you wouldn’t have enough power left over for the binding. We would become very unpopular with the rest of Thedas. Well, unless we targeted Orlais, then everyone would thank us,” he said, warm and affectionate, distracting, diffusing. Alexius needed a warm meal and a soft bed.

Alexius pulled away. He gently lifted a tome from the hidden compartment in the bookcase. It was yellowed at the edges and smelled strongly of paper rot. But it wasn’t dusty. Alexius had already been reading.

“Is that the  _ Compendium Et Ambitio Gloriae _ ?  _ Vishante kaffas_!” said Dorian with rising panic. “There is no need for illegal texts.”

“We could craft fulcrums. Perhaps with enough of them, and enough lyrium—”

“Craft fulcrums with what? Because you can’t possibly be suggesting we use the contents of that book.”

“And why not?” said Alexius. He tapped the tome. “This has been in my family for generations. Not touched for most, of course, but there, available, if need be. Most of these materials can still be found. If we created—”

“I will not perform blood magic!” said Dorian. “I can’t believe I even have to say that to you. Get some sleep, Alexius.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand perfectly.”

“They will have their lives again when we go back in time,” said Alexius, perfectly composed.

The room grew so quiet, Dorian could hear the mechanical clicking of a clock, a steady beat that never faltered.

“You can’t be serious,” said Dorian.

“I am,” said Alexius. He spoke with clarity. His hands were steady, and his eyes were focused.

Dorian started to pace, the situation feeling impossible, unreal, a nightmare warping his reality. He felt it crawling up his skin like roaches. “We have said, over and over again, that it is not about the time, it is about the magic, that if it were to ever—Maker forbid—become viable, we would never attempt it.”

“Things change, Dorian.” 

Alexius pressed his hands into his desk, leaning his body into them, closing his eyes and swaying just slightly. He looked sick, and Dorian felt hope spark in his chest. Alexius was unwell after tending to Felix for weeks. This behavior was temporary. 

Dorian placed a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go to the kitchen. Or I could have a slave bring something here, if you’d like,” he said, as if speaking to an overexcited child.

Alexius pushed him away. “I don’t need food,” he snapped. “I need my wife!” He lifted his hands and slammed them down on his desk. The sound of it was striking, shocking, dissonant. Dorian took a step back, and admitted to himself what he already knew.

“You’ve already done it. You’ve already killed.”

“So that Felix will live,” said Alexius, muttering at the floor. 

Dorian spoke in a low whisper, hissing through his teeth. “How  _ dare  _ you make that decision for him.”

Alexius stood straight. “When we are done with our work, they will be alive again, and Felix will never have known this suffering.”

“He is still here! Tell him of your plans, your theories. See how he reacts. What would Livia think of this?”

“I will ask her when I see her again,” said Alexius. “Felix will understand.” 

Dorian’s emotions were flaring, but his understanding was moving much more slowly. He registered Alexius’s words, but he could not yet internalize the truth of his conviction. That was why Dorian continued to argue with a madman.

“Even if—even if—you manage this, what then? Hmmm? We’ve explored the idea that the Fade could simply copy a certain point, creating two realities that exist in tandem, both continuing on regardless of what reality the caster chooses to live in. This Thedas could continue with or without you! So what, you plan on saying ‘Sorry about all the mess, must be off then,’ and, pop! You leave this world, and the rest of us are left to bury the dead?”

“That is your theory, and not mine. The Fade cannot sustain two versions of Thedas.”

“All of it is theory!” shouted Dorian.

“It doesn’t have to be! Are you not listening?” yelled Alexius. He closed his eyes, calming himself, and he took a step toward Dorian. Dorian flinched and gasped, and he realized he was afraid.

“Gereon,” said Dorian, the name sounding awkward in his voice. He’d grown quite informal with his mentor and his family, but there was something about using Alexius’s first name that felt like crossing some secret line. But there was blood on Alexius’s hands now, innocent blood, a slave with no defenses and no way to fight back. There were no longer boundaries. “Please, rest. I am still mourning Livia, too, and seeing Felix is—” his voice hitched, and Dorian took a moment to control his urge to cry. 

“Some days I can’t bring myself to look at him,” he said, his mouth dry, heart heavy with the confession. “But to move on is to honor them.”

“Livia was my heart,” said Alexius, voice shaking. “And Felix is my life. To move on is to have neither. I will be nothing.”

And then, without thinking, very small, Dorian said, “You have me.”

“And what does that mean, if you will not help?”

Dorian took a few steps backwards. “Well. There’s nothing to say to that.”

Dorian stormed out of Alexius’s office. He felt in his gut that if he did not leave, and leave immediately, then the consequences would be deadly or worse.

—-

There was an easy way to get to the gates, but Dorian didn’t take that path. He found himself outside Felix’s door. It was open. Dorian hesitated, then he walked inside.

Felix was at his bay window, sitting with his legs stretched out in front, leaning against the side. His fever had broken, but he was not entirely well. He wore sleep clothes and was wrapped in a blanket. He looked at Dorian with bloodshot eyes, and his expression grew grim.

“You know what he did,” said Dorian.

“I suspected.”

“I’m leaving,” said Dorian. “You could come with me.”

Felix looked out the window. “I can’t.”

“We’ll hire a healer and move slowly.”

“It’s not that,” said Felix, his voice hoarse, and Dorian didn’t know if it was from crying or illness. “I’m afraid of what he’ll do without me. To someone else, or to himself.”

“That’s not your responsibility,” said Dorian, panic rising in his voice. Felix only sniffed and swallowed thickly.

“It is,” he said.

The shattered pieces of his life lay before him, dust and crumbs. It had been slipping from his hands for a while, peeling off in pieces, but now it was little more than formless sand. 

“Fathers are unfair,” said Dorian.

Felix laughed without humor. “Take care, Dorian,” he said.

“I’ll see you again,” said Dorian with the aggressive conviction of someone who didn’t quite believe themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I expanded upon a sort of "deleted scene" from this fic, so if you want more Dorian and Felix, please read [A Good Day!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25150627)


	3. Chapter 3

Dorian spent the next two weeks in Asariel, losing himself in drink and men. It was nice, for a time, but he was growing bored. He knew he was capable of muscling past that feeling, because there was always solace in a bottle if one looked hard enough. But Dorian felt he owed it to who Alexius had once been to not be the child Alexius had found, but be the man Alexius had seen. 

He booked a carriage to Qarinus. Slower than sea, but fast enough that he didn’t bother sending a letter to his parents ahead of time. They had a good relationship, all things considered, and he knew they would take him in.

Aquinea greeted him as soon as he arrived at the gates. She often sat in the west tower and watched the entrance for surprise guests, ever the dutiful  _ altus  _ wife. Spouses of magisters were often regulated to petty social politicking, a ghost of the alliances and rivalries in the magisterium. Aquinea had always resented it, but the Thalrassian seat had been given to her less gifted but more favored sister, and she had been outdone in her various bids for her own title. She had succumbed to the situation years ago.

“Your arrival is a surprise,” she said, her tone as pressed and crisp as her gown. Dorian’s heart suddenly ached for Livia, who had lounged around her estates in cloth pants and formless tunics, always busying herself with some project or another. 

“Do try to reign in your excitement,” said Dorian. “You’re making a scene.”

Dorian’s mother's expression remained neatly controlled. It rolled off of Dorian. He long ago gave up hoping for his mother’s affection.

They stood silently in the foyer, waiting. When Dorian saw a figure wrapped in a magister’s robes walk down the stairs, he felt an unexpected burst of joy. He was suddenly a boy again, waiting in the foyer with his nanny and a blanket, forcing his heavy eyes to stay open so that he’d see his father return from Minrathous.

Halward grinned when he saw Dorian, and Dorian couldn’t help but smile back. His father clasped their forearms together, searching Dorian’s face for some sign.

“Are the rumors true?” said Halward softly.

“Which rumors are you referencing? I’m quite the popular figure,” asked Dorian, keeping his tone glib while he inwardly started to panic. He’d been careful enough while coping in Asariel, but one could only mitigate the risks of whittling away an evening at a sordid bathhouse, not erase them entirely.

Halward’s face flickered with frustration as Dorian alluded to unsavory behavior, but it didn’t last long. “You and Gereon had a bit of a falling out,” he said.

In that moment, Dorian wanted nothing more than to confess to his father everything that had happened over the last two years in a babbling flood of long-buried emotions. Dorian had dismissed his own pain over the loss of Livia and the deterioration of Felix in order to stay strong for Alexius, and he suddenly felt all of it churn inside him, poisonous in its long suppression, burning like bile.

He pushed it away, as had been his habit for so long. He didn’t have that kind of relationship with his father.

“You could put it like that,” said Dorian. “I may be staying here for a bit.”

“Of course. You are always welcome,” said Halward.

And for a few weeks, it was actually good to be home.

Then it wasn’t.

—-

Dorian gestured at a slave for another glass of wine, and his mother glared at him across the formal dining hall. He didn’t care, which was the appeal of wine. It was his favorite kind of drunk, a perfect low hum of warm pleasure without agitation. Dorian had used it to quell the growing panic and rage he’d felt when the dinner began, and was now he was just enjoying being well and truly wasted.

His parents had invited House Herathinos over for dinner. Dorian had only been told that day, which struck him as odd, as they weren’t particularly close to the Herathinos, and they had never come over for impromptu visits before. He was told, rather than asked, that he’d be attending, which chafed at Dorian, because he was a twenty six-year-old full Enchanter. He balked, but acquiesced, as there was no particular reason not to go other than his offense at the assumption.

He felt very, very stupid for not having realizing the dinner was a marriage negotiation.

Nothing had been said yet, of course. Tevinter was direct about stabbing, indirect with everything else, and it wasn’t polite to bring up the miserable futures of your children until the sixth course. There were clues, though. The Herathinos heir kept looking at him with a put upon seduction, and the conversation kept cycling back to Dorian and Livia’s accomplishments.

Herathinos would be a good match for Pavus. Both of their reputations were still smudged from past scandal—Dorian and his men, Lord Herathinos and his gambling youth. Heranthinos had evaded ruination ten years ago when Lord Heranthinos had married a formidable magister, but the  _ altus _ had long memories. Addiction could run in blood, after all, and there were rumors that Lord Herathinos had exchanged his love of risk for Orlesian poppy. The man seemed to do nothing but stare blankly and eat mechanically. He would not make for a particularly charismatic father-in-law, and the holidays would be very dull.

It was ironic this potential bride-to-be shared the same name as Alexius’s wife. Livia Herathinos was well read and quick witted. Dorian briefly imagined finding common ground with her. Perhaps they could eventually form the unshakable bond Alexius had had with his own Livia. But Dorian had always found Alexius’s life to be a consolation prize, and it was not one Dorian would accept. Dorian wanted to stand in the Chantry with a man, dazzling in fine silks of white and gold, grinning until their faces hurt. He would have a husband, and his marriage would be beautiful and strong, and they would be the envy of Minrathous.

“Livia is a delightful young woman,” said his mother after Livia had landed an admittedly decent joke. Aquinea’s voice was pitched higher around others, and it sounded manufactured even to those who didn’t know her. It was how all unhappy _ altus  _ Ladies spoke, lilting and forced. Livia had yet to adopt the cadence, and Dorian hoped she never would.

“Dorian is quite... strapping,” said Magister Herathinos, pausing slightly to highlight that Dorian had done little more than stain his lips with wine since she’d arrived.

Dorian sighed and wiped at his mouth with his napkin. He let it slip from his fingers rather than place it on the table. It fluttered down dramatically. “So we’re getting on with it, then?” said Dorian, much too loudly. “In the interest of everyone moving on with their lives, allow me to summarize the ensuing conversation.” He swept his arm over the table, highlighting his grand statement. “The marriage simply will not work, as I am very enamored with cock.”

The shock that resonated through the room was so sudden, so entire, that the change felt physical. Even the slaves looked scandalized.

Aquinea slapped her hand against the table, perhaps imagining it were Dorian’s wrist. Magister Herathinos gasped sharply. Livia looked utterly mortified. Lord Herathinos didn’t do much of anything at first, but then he gave his wife a questioning look, seemingly aware that something had happened, but he wasn’t entirely sure.

Halward shot upwards out of his seat, so deeply enraged that Dorian would have been afraid if Dorian were sober. Instead, he laughed with true mirth, deep from his belly. He couldn’t have asked for a better reaction. 

Dorian surveyed them with a dramatic swivel of his head. “What? Have I said something wrong?” he asked. “Perhaps I was too crass. Penis. Dick.  _ Verpa.  _ Cock! We’ve all experienced it in one way or another, yes? Take no offense Livia, you are quite lovely. It’s just—” Dorian waved a hand vaguely toward Livia, sighing in a way that indicated pure disappointment and utter disinterest.

Halward moved toward them quickly, placing his body between the family and the door. “Our deepest apologies. Dorian was with House Alexius when tragedy struck them, and he has not been himself since.”

“I am entirely myself!” said Dorian with alacrity. “I would be a delight at all the Herathinos family gatherings.”

“You dare to invite us, and then subject our daughter to this filth?” asked Magister Herathinos, directing her words toward Dorian’s parents, as if he wasn’t even there.

Dorian laughed darkly. “I’m sure she’s done more than hear filth! I attended Astirium Circle. Bit of an open secret about the third floor storerooms.”

Livia gave him a look of pure hatred. Dorian felt a slight tug of sympathy for her. Perhaps when his head was clearer he’d send her a letter of apology. Perhaps he wouldn’t, because if anyone owed her that letter, it was both sets of parents.

Dorian gestured toward a slave with his glass, and his mother put her hand over the top. He clicked his tongue in annoyance. “If you must organize discussions to decide my future without consulting me, the least you could do is let me forget the evening.”

“No,” said Aquinea, so harsh and cold that even Dorian cowed to her. He loosened his fingers reflexively, and the glass shattered on the floor.

“Well,” he said. He stared at the mess, then looked up and grinned at his mother. “You’re just upset I’ve had better sex than you.”

“We’re leaving,” said Magister Herathinos, drawing herself up and roughly pulling back her daughter’s chair. Halward was up and tending to them immediately, gesturing to a slave to bring their coats. He was nervous and ashamed, no longer posturing, but openly a man who was desperately worried for his future.

“My sincerest apologies,” said Halward. “I humbly request your discretion in this sensitive matter, and we would be glad to compensate you for troubles.”

“We will discuss what you owe later,” said Magister Herathinos coldly. A slave arrived with her cloak, and she stretched her arms out, allowing the slave to place it on her. Two other slaves were helping the rest of her family into their own outerwear. Lord Herathinos had to be moved directly, like a doll.

Magister Herathinos brushed away at some speck of dirt only she could see. “My great-grandmother married a Pavus. Learn to control you son, or he will ruin this House. She locked eyes with Halward. “There are ways to deal with errancy.” She held out her hand and snapped, not looking away from Halward. “Come, Calidius,” she said.

Lord Herathinos went quietly to her side. He did not speak. He did not balk at the command. He was only blank.

If Dorian had been sober, he would have felt a chill at that exchange, and recognized the darkness beneath, but he was not sober. He put his head down on the table, and let the world melt away.

—

When he woke up a few hours later and stumbled to his quarters, he saw that his things were not in his room. He went to his parents’ wing, and made a fuss at the door, knocking and shouting for half an hour.

Finally, his father opened the door, red-eyed and raged.

“Get out,” he hissed. “You are no son of mine.”

— 

Dorian was down to a handful of rings, an ornamental mirror, a few items of clothing, and his birthright. He liked the rings. He wanted to keep the rings. Perhaps he’d sell his battle cloak next. It was finely made and tailored to him, but what use did he have for leather armaments? He hardly wore clothes these days.

He could, perhaps, tutor _ lucerni _ . No  _ alti  _ would have him at this point. He’d been very famously fired from the Val Dorma Circle for coming into his classroom stumbling drunk and choosing to educate his students on certain House's open secrets rather than how to use spirits as conduits. The firing came as a surprise to Dorian, as he hadn’t taught a single class sober thus far, and had assumed it was a perk of the job. 

Perhaps even  _ lucerni  _ would be turned off by him at this point.

Val Dorma Circle had been one of the few Dorian hadn’t attended as a child, and he found it amusing he still managed to leave it in disgrace. There were two more Circles left in Tevinter at which Dorian could seek employment, but they were both far out into the countryside. There would be no brothels or gambling dens or saunas, nor any carta thugs to supply lunatic’s deathroot for particularly special celebrations. There would be taverns, though. There were always taverns. Perhaps it might come to that after all.

It was just after sundown, and Dorian was already desperately drunk off a bottle purchased that morning, all grins and stumbles. He left his quaint little apartment he couldn’t afford and made his way to The Wyvern’s Heart, the seediest bar you could find outside the slums. They knew him there, and very rarely kicked him out. He liked that about them.

Dorian had formed something of a social circle, a group that enjoyed taking their nights to the whorehouses or each other’s homes. They were as close to friends as Dorian had ever gotten, though they were bound only through liquor and sex. He scanned the room, hoping to catch one of them. He someone, and he grinned. The man wasn’t from his current group of friends. He was someone even better.

He weaved his way across the bar, and addressed the man directly. “Ulio Abrexius! It’s been quite some time since we’ve had our tongues down each other’s throats.”

Lord Ulio shifted his gaze away, nervously wringing his hands. He laughed weakly.

Dorian should have left the poor man alone. It wasn’t his fault they’d been caught pawing at each other in the library of Ventus Circle, which was against the rules, yes, but never would have resulted in expulsion if they had been a man and a woman. Ulio was married now, as was everyone else he had dabbled with as a teenager. 

Sometimes, Dorian would bitterly imagine what would have happened if all the male-inclined  _ altus _ men had stood together and demanded change in the way families were wed. Some of them were firstborn heirs from great Houses, just like Dorian. They would have been heard.

Dorian leaned closer to Ulio.

“Have you missed me?” Dorian asked, unmistakably suggestive.

Ulio stammered.

—

Hours later he was sucking cock in the Abrexius estate. Dorian relished in the luridness of it all, gorgeous on his knees, debauched, no longer a proud altus but a common slut. They fucked with shame, shame for Ulio Abrexius that the scandalous Dorian Pavus was making him cum, and shame for Dorian, for being Dorian at all. 

—-

If Dorian had been sober, he would have realized Ulio responded too easily. He would have connected that The Wyvern’s Heart wasn’t a particularly special destination, and there was no reason a well-bred altus Lord should have been there, especially not one connected to Dorian.

If he had been sober, Dorian would have realized he was being set up.

—-

The slave who had brought them crusted breads with olive oil and a bottle of riesling was a trained magekiller. The wine had been drugged. Dorian would never forget how easily he had been kidnapped.

— 

Dorian found himself on a boat with the magekiller’s sword pointed at him. She gave Dorian a tincture of magebane, and Dorian was too defeated to fight it. He made her feed it to him though, because he was still Dorian enough to make her life difficult, but it was all a show. He knew he could try harder to evade his captor, and could possibly succeed. He couldn’t find the energy.

And somewhere deep inside, he wanted to see if anyone bothered to rescue him at all. 

The trip took three days. It was a blur of seawater, sweat, and vomit, his body filled with poison and rolling with every wave. He would never again get on a boat without remembering the feel of magebane and bile coming up his throat.

The magekiller gave him a sleeping drought on the last day. Dorian made a show of taking it, but still gave in, just as he’d done every morning with the magebane.

He wondered who had taken him. Was it the Venatori, tired of Dorian’s constant tirades against them? Would it be someone he had embarrassed, intentionally or otherwise? An enemy of House Pavus, trying to dredge up the last of his father’s responsibility toward his son? Would his father care? Dorian was the laughing stock of Tevinter.

Dorian woke up in his childhood bedroom.

—

The first thing Dorian did once his mind was no longer sluggish from travel and potions, before he even sat up, was try his magic. When he reached for it, he found he had no mana. He was still connected to the Fade, but had no energy left to grasp it, like a paralyzed muscle.

He searched his body and found he’d been stripped of all his jewelry save for an unfamiliar ring on his right hand, made of heavy refined lyrium, etched with tiny but perfectly detailed glyphs that Dorian recognized. He could not take it off.

Dorian roared into the emptiness of his chambers, a wordless sound of shock and anguish and shame.

—

“I know you’re upset with me,” his father said.

Dorian had been trapped in his room for eight, maybe nine days, seeing only slaves when they set down his meals. He had started to lose track of time. Dorian suspected his parents had left him alone for so long to break his spirit. It had worked.

Dorian didn’t bother to get up off his bed when he heard Halward enter. He waved his right hand in the air, brandishing the lyrium ring. “What a thoughtful gift, though it’s not quite my color,” he said tonelessly.

Halward sat on the edge of his bed. It reminded Dorian of being sick as a child, tossing and turning, only soothed when his father came to read to him. The memory was cruel.

Dorian kept his hand above his face, focused on the ring.

“You never gave yourself time to truly process what you lost with Alexius,” said Halward, all syrupy pity. “We have you now. You can slow down.”

“I’ve been moving quite slowly these past few months,” said Dorian dully. “One must be careful when one has been drinking.” He made a circling gesture in the air, then let his hand fall to his side and hang limply off the bed.

Dorian could hear his father exhale noisily, frustrated, but Halward managed to return to cloying sweetness. “I can’t say I’ve never enjoyed excess in my youth,” he said. He lowered his voice, back to his attempts at sympathy. “I know you’ve been having a rough go of it.”

“I do like it rough.”

Halward got off Dorian’s bed roughly. Dorian saw him cross his arms out of the corner of his eye, standing at the side of the bed and staring down, trying to look intimidating. Dorian continued to stare up at the ceiling. “I wouldn’t have to keep your mana drained if I could trust you to behave!”

“You wouldn’t have had to do this at all, if you hadn’t forced poor Livia Herathinos on me when I had hardly been here for a month,” said Dorian.

“It has been nearly a year since that day! Are you still pouting? I’ll admit it was a bit unfair for me to spring it on you so suddenly, but if I hadn’t, you wouldn’t have even met with her!”

“Ah. He finally gets it.”

Dorian could hear Halward pacing, even if he still refused to look at him. Dorian was almost proud of how quickly he could work his father into a frenzy.

He heard his father’s footsteps stop. Halward fell into a chair. 

“I saw an amulet I gifted you for your twentieth birthday on a merchant’s daughter a few days back,” said Halward dryly. “I noticed we found very few possessions in your apartment.”

“You gathered up my things when you captured and poisoned me? How very kind,” said Dorian.

“I know you couldn’t hold down a respectable job. Your lifestyle, if one could call it that, was entirely supported by selling off all your darling trinkets, and I know you had many. We always did indulge in your vanity.”

“Shockingly, I survived the loss of anklets.”

“You were living in the golden sector,” said his father. “Don’t act as if you were ready to live as a commoner. Do you think the _ soporati  _ have slaves that bring dinner to their chambers?”

Dorian didn’t say anything. He understood the point his father was trying to make, and he wasn’t going to entertain the logic.

“I am saying our status comes with perks as much as it does responsibilities. If you insist on being a hedonist, then by all means, have at it! I’ve ceased to care. But by the Maker, do it after you perform your duties to Pavus. You and whatever passes for your friends can get piss drunk in the parlor for all I care! I don’t understand why this is so difficult for you.”

Dorian rolled on his side, facing the wall. “I’ve never fucked a woman,” he said. “It would be a shame to start now.”

Halward didn’t say anything for a moment, and Dorian thought he might leave.

Halward began to speak in a low, hushed tone.

“There has been gossip in the past,” he said slowly. “Nothing anyone can prove, of course. This must be done very, very carefully. But if a marriage cannot produce an heir for… whatever reason, well, they might seek a _ laetan  _ of similar appearance, and offer a sum.”

Dorian, very slowly, sat up and looked at his father.

Halward dared to look smug, sitting with his legs primly crossed, the armchair his throne. He even had a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, like he was setting down a winning hand in a game of Wicked Grace.

“You can’t possibly be suggesting what you’re suggesting,” Dorian said.

“It’s something to consider.”

“So you admit it has nothing to do with blood. Nothing to do with being a Dreamer, or the Pavus line, or our history, and everything to do with appearances!” Dorian’s voice was rising.

Halward stood up harshly, stomping his feet like a toddler. “Why is this so hard for you?” he shouted. “You are hardly the first person to not be attracted to their mate!”

“Well! If we’re suddenly so charitable to magical commoners then let’s, oh, I don’t know, adopt a magical child from the Maker-damned southerners! How absurd would it be, to save someone from servitude, and fold them into a loving home.”

“That is not done,” he said flatly.

“No, no, you’re right, let’s instead pay someone to fuck my wife! The child will be raised by the slaves, while I hold raucous bacchanals in the ballroom. And where is my blushing bride in this little scenario, hmm? Crying herself to sleep? What a lovely tapestry you’ve woven!”

Halward started pacing, his hands fists at his side. “I have tried, and I have tried, and I have tried with you!”

“Then try standing with me against these ridiculous practices! I would not shove a woman into a role she does not want, then sit idly by as she becomes a shell of herself.” Dorian folded his hands together and placed them on his lap, smiling politely at his father, a little boy putting on a show for the adults at a party.

“And where is Mother, anyway?” he asked.

Halward inhaled sharply. Dorian would have felt remorse for going too far if they had not passed that point long ago, and then gone further.

Halward stormed to the door, robes flying behind him. He paused with his hand on the doorknob, and muttered, “It’s the men. This, all of this, the the drinking, the whoring, the obstinacy, it all comes down to the Maker-damned men.”

He slammed the door behind him.

—

Dorian knew, in the way that unthinkable things are sometimes known before they happen, that something was wrong when he saw a retinue arrive wearing Herathinos heraldry. Livia wasn’t with them this time, nor Lord Herathinos. It was just Magister Herathinos, who met his father at the gates. They immediately disappeared into the estate. Dorian hoped they were having an affair. It would have been good for them both. 

Yet when Dorian asked his father about her, Halward did not react with calm and easy lies an adulterous man would have prepared. He sputtered and grew angry, yelling at Dorian about paying more attention to Halward’s life than reflecting on his own.

—

Dorian had been siphoning the dregs of his mana into a silver royal that had been left in the pocket of his cloak. The rest of his room had been stripped of all magical-reactive metals, but silver _ would  _ hold a spell, just not very well. He’d been doing it for months and months, placing drips of himself into what was, essentially, a bucket with a hole. His father blamed his lethargy on Dorian’s stubbornly maudlin mood, which wasn’t entirely untrue, but it ended up suiting Halward. When he would drag Dorian out and parade him around as reformed and repentant, Dorian’s lack of energy sold the charade. He hadn’t stored enough mana to do anything really complex, but Dorian needed to know if his suspicions were paranoia or truth. 

Before he cast the spell, he knelt and pressed his palms together, praying to the Maker with a reverence and ceremony he rarely performed, reciting the Chant,rather than having an informal conversation. When he was done, he stood, focused on the ring, and began to cast. 

The bonds gave in easily, and with mana to spare. His father had always been more politician than mage.

Dorian left his room as quietly as he could, moving through his childhood home like the escaped prisoner he was. 

—

The locks to his father’s study were protected with a simple force ward that Dorian could have dismantled in his sleep. On Halward’s desk was the Greater Tome of the Mortal Vessel, a knife made of white steel and dipped in lyrium, and revenant blood to bind a demon.

In that moment, in that slow, impossible moment, Dorian would have gladly lived as an imitation of a man, would have turned back time and learned to look away from corruption, would have learned to be satisfied play-acting at love with paid men and returning to a cold marriage bed, because the lifelong ache of a locked-in lie would have been bearable compared to knowing his father loved social standing so, so, so much more than he loved his son.

—

For the third time in his life, he gathered his things and fled a home of hate. He left a note in his father’s study, placed beneath the knife:

_ I see. _

—

He knew if he stayed in a city he would just sink back into taverns and brothels, so he traveled. He went further out into the Imperium, where gossip about high-born _ alti  _ had never quite found footing, and he was judged based on his intellect and charm rather than his family and his more shameful moments.

It wasn’t the parade of uneducated fools Dorian had assumed. Life outside the cities was rustic, yes, but it was freer, and kinder to a gay man. There were plenty of merchants and countryside  _ alti  _ who abused their power in the greater Imperium, but it was refreshingly open, not so much a sly game but a brutal truth. 

People lived happily. There was clever magic everywhere, and small town bards telling fascinating tales, and people married whoever they liked. Education was more sparse, and nowhere did Dorian find the innovation of the more prestigious Circle's academics, but otherwise it was nice. It was what the Imperium should be, if not for the tragic fashion and lack of plumbing.

He actually had gotten work at one more Circle, Nessum on the Nevarran border, and he was resigning to an acceptable enough life. It was a waste of his intelligence and talent, but he would never be welcomed back in Minrathous, and he could trick himself into thinking the simplicity was charming. He liked the students, he had access to libraries and magical foundries, and there was a lovely blonde Enchanter who looked away shyly whenever Dorian approached. It was something. It was preferable to Qarinus.

Then, the sky tore.

It was satisfying—poetic, even—to leave his last Circle on his own terms.

—

He went to Minrathous, and was surprised to learn the issue had begun in Ferelden, at the Temple that claimed to host Andraste’s ashes, during a meeting that was meant to spread peace among the Templars and mages. No one in Tevinter was surprised that the conclave ended with an explosion, but the hole in the sky was an unexpected twist.

No one in Minrathous took it seriously. They said it was untrained southern magic, and the issue would resolve itself once the Andrastrian chantry sorted itself out.

Dorian, ever the contrarian, saw a hole in the sky and thought it was perhaps prudent to investigate.


	4. Chapter 4

He sailed to Ferelden in a dreary haze of nausea and port, then wandered through the Hinterlands with little direction. He had heard rumors of someone chosen by Andraste Herself to close the breach, and he had heard that the so-called Herald had settled in the town that hosted the Temple Of Sacred Ashes. Dorian still doubted the holiness of said ashes, but the information seemed solid enough. He spent the last of his coin on a horse, and traveled toward the snowy peaks of the Frostback Mountains.

When he felt time magic pull at him, sensitive to it after studying it for so long, Dorian immediately followed the sensation and found Alexius at Redcliffe.

—

It was easy to face Alexius when Dorian treated everything as temporary, like it was all in his imagination, even though there was nothing false about it. The blood glyphs that decorated the walls were active and accurate, the discarded bodies smelled of rot, the Venatori’s spells burned hot, and yet Dorian felt unmade and unreal.

Perhaps that was because nothing was familiar. He had never heard of this castle, he was fighting for his life with someone he had just met, and when the Herald’s comrades were found lyrium-sick and mutilated, he watched the mourning unfold with no context.

When the Elder One began his attack, Dorian was forced to cast a messy and unbalanced spell that needed more mana than he had. He cut open his wrists and drew upon his own lifeforce, because he would not allow this world to be his reality.  _ I suppose this is what Alexius has felt all this time _ , he thought as he gambled his life with nothing but guesswork and luck.

It worked.

Dorian stumbled slightly when he snapped into his body, his skin unmarked, his mana pool steady and strong. The other world was already slipping away, like an unimportant dream dissolving upon waking, like his mind was desperately burying a body that was still warm. His stomach lurched. He felt light headed.

He quickly straightened his back and smirked.

“You’ll have to try better than that,” he said with a wink. Alexius looked at him, slack-jawed, dead-eyed.

Temporary. All of it was temporary.

He excused himself when a Templar came to drain Alexius of magic, and did not see him again until the attack on Haven. Someone had chained the prisoners and was guiding them through the snow like leashed dogs. He had met Alexius’s eyes. He had turned away.

—-

Dorian offered his aid to the Inquisition, and the offer was accepted.

It was oddly comforting to be openly hated because of his country and his abilities, rather than mocked and reviled for his morals and his sexuality. He won the Inquisition over in time, utilizing the skills he had honed when he was Alexius’s celebrated apprentice. If one helped enough, amused enough, flirted enough, one became accepted. He stopped being the ‘Vint to most, and became a sharp-tongued man who could drink with the best of them. Those who did not come around never would, and Dorian didn’t concern himself with them beyond watching his back.

He even began to form friends. Real friends like Felix, not just people in his life whose company he enjoyed. He was the only Tevinter mage, but he was not the only pariah, and there were conversations to be had and understandings to be shared. He spilled more than ale in smaller hours of the Herald’s Rest, whispering anxieties _ in vino veritas _ , connecting with others in a way he never thought imaginable.

There was the Inquisitor herself, as disapproving of a Tevinter mage as any other southerner, calling him magister and accusing him of blood magic. She was cold toward him, until one night when she invited herself into Dorian’s tent at Haven with a bottle of brandy and terror in her eyes. She said she had dreamed of Corypheus’s future every night since they left. They drank deeply. She fell asleep across his stomach. They were inseparable ever since. 

Sera’s acceptance came minutes after she met him. She confronted him without even sharing her name, and pelted him with a string of questions that alternated between predictable and bizarre. He took it in stride and answered as best he could. She looked at him with suspicion, and then her face lit up all at once, and she asked if he’d like to buy her a beer. She never failed to make him laugh, and she always knew when to distract Dorian from his own thoughts. Dorian never expected a foul mouthed Denerim elf to become one of the greatest delights in his life, but there was little about his life in Skyhold Dorian ever expected.

His newfound circle of friends grew and grew. Cullen was curious about Tevinter in the way Dorian was curious about Circles, both disgusted by the other’s life but also utterly fascinated. Cassandra was a fellow veteran of upper class rebellion, and once she had warmed to him, they swapped stories of overblown lordlings and vapid first sons. Varric shared his love of mocking both strangers and close personal friends, and Vivienne would tell him stories of the Orlesian courts when she was in the mood.

Then there was The Iron Bull, who roared in battle, who laughed without reserve, who was fearsome and gentle in equal measure. Bull refused to hate him, in spite of spilling the blood of his people, in spite of all for which Dorian stood. He was large and muscular and made it known his manhood was in proportion. Dorian stared openly and pretended that he didn’t. The Bull teased and taunted him until Dorian was all but forced to his bed. Sex with Bull was a novelty and it was a thrill and it was something else that Dorian did not quite want to name. He sometimes found himself in Bull’s arms, lazy in the sweat-soaked aftermath, indulging peace. He would catch himself dozing, and would return to his room before he let himself expect that kind of warmth.

Eventually, Skyhold became home, the first true home he’d had since he fled the Gereon Estates.

Of course, Dorian stood out much more working with a Chantry-blessed army than he did in the backwaters of Tevinter, where he was just some altus who minded his own business. 

He became very easy to find.

One day, the Inquisitor approached him with a letter from his father.

—

“Don’t leave it like this, Dorian. You’ll never forgive yourself.”

There was no reason to listen to the Inquisitor. After all, Dorian very rarely heeded voices of authority. That was one of the many reasons he stood in this very tavern, facing a man who had shaped him, then shattered him, then asked for clemency after employing trickery. 

And yet, Dorian found himself staying.

He took hesitating steps forward, his legs weak and shaking. He thought of toddlers taking their first steps, mirroring their parents’ grins, bursting with their pride.

The door of the Gull And Lantern closed. He was left alone with his father in a sun-striped tavern that smelled of old wood and soured food. Halward was the very picture of remorse, the silver eyes he’d given Dorian properly cast aside, his posture prettily angled with defeat. 

Dorian had considered the possibility of seeing his family again. It was bound to happen eventually, no matter how far he ran. He’d gone over every possible scenario, scripted entire monologues for every potential conversation any Pavus could possibly present. None of his imagined scenes resulted in reconciliation, even the ones where his parents were apologetic. Dorian would love nothing more than to know Halward’s guilt was rotting him from the inside.

In all his fantasies, he would walk out on his father, preferably after saying a particularly damning line. His father would play his role admirably. He’d be hurt, pouting, but still not quite understanding the depths of his mistakes. Hoping for unconditional accountability was foolish. Halward Pavus was not that man.

But there was longing beneath the anger, quiet but present. Dorian turned to his father slowly, dream-like, awkward, hardly aware of what he was doing.

A thick silence filled the dusty tavern. 

“Well?” said Dorian, sweeping out his arms, fed up with waiting for Halward to begin. “Here we are!”

His father closed his eyes. “I shouldn’t have come. How can I ask for your forgiveness when I will never forgive myself?”

“Fantastic!” said Dorian. “You shouldn’t! Finally, after all these years, we’ve found something to agree on!”

Dorian felt sickly energized by the fight, as it always went with his father. He’d feel emboldened and righteous while they shouted, then defeated and small when everything settled. It was an exhausting cycle.

Halward’s gaze focused somewhere beyond his son. “We agree on so much more than you think,” he said softly.

Dorian laughed. This, too, he had imagined, the dismissal of his father’s performative shame. “Of course! I believe we both dislike figs, correct? We agree that Mercius’s history of the New Exalted Marches is biased drivel intended to gain sympathy for Rivain. We’ve also had extensive conversations about the idiocy of blood magic, though we differ on the trivial principle of whether or not to cast it on one’s son.”

Halward took a sharp intake breath. “It was all a fit of pique,” he said. “A base impulse I should have ignored. I don’t think I would have gone through with it.”

“Well. We’ll never know now, will we,” said Dorian.

“I know you think me callous—”

“Oh, I think you are much more than that.”

Another rehearsed line, another snarl in his lips, another furious growl in his voice. He would see this play out the way he wanted. He would storm from this tavern, head held high, confirmed in his resolution to denounce his father.

“I never knew if you were alive and well, or if you were lying face down in a gutter, drowning in sewer water! I was a desperate father wanting to heal his son,” said Halward, and Dorian knew he, too, had readied his own scripts.

The words twisted Dorian’s gut, just as the topic of his vices always did, but his preparations were thorough. “Shall we address everyone’s indulgences as an independent adult with time-outs in their bedroom? Or would you rather skip the theatrics, and go straight for the mind-altering spellwork?”

Halward’s eyes remained trained on the floor, his head weightless and drooping, like he could no longer hold himself up. “I thought it might make you happy,” he said, hoarse, distant.

“How?” Dorian snapped at his father’s performance, still held together by the wild adrenaline that comes of a fight between two people who could tear each other down beyond recognition. He stepped forward. “By leaving me unable to feel anything at all?” 

Halward opened his mouth, closed it. He held out his hands, helpless. He looked truly contrite. He looked desperately sad. “Dorian, please. I am trying,” he whispered.

“Not hard enough,” Dorian hissed.

There was another sharp intake of breath, like Dorian’s words were physical strikes. He still did not look at his son. “I raised you with the values I had that my father did not. I wanted to change House Pavus, to make us kinder, better,” he said. His speech was careful, halting, like Dorian’s when he was swallowing a need to cry. “You took to the lesson too well,” he continued. “You wanted to teach not just your future children, but the Imperium at large.”

For a moment, Dorian let himself believe.

There was a script for this too, written only once and then torn apart, the pages burned and turned to ashes in his mind. To think his father was truly repentant was forbidden. It was foolish. It was a tool with which to hurt himself.

Dorian threw his hand over his heart in feigned shock. “Monstrous! Absurd! I must be stopped!”

Halward shrank into himself in a way Dorian had never seen. He balled his fists at his sides, holding onto anger with all his might. 

This was not the victory Dorian had always imagined. 

“I didn’t mean to offend,” said Halward, too earnest, too undeniably apologetic. “I think differently, now. I see you differently.”

“Have you finally realized I’m flesh and blood, and not another Pavus heirloom to preserve and display?” asked Dorian. 

Halward caught Dorian’s gaze. His eyes were filled with an honest conviction, and they held Dorian’s heart in a too-tight fist, gripping him with Halward’s need to be understood. “Yes,” he said. “You were always too proud to bow to others, and I was too proud to admit that you were brave. I should have celebrated you. Instead, I tried to break you. I will always have to live with that choice.”

Halward focused again on the dirty tavern floor, and Dorian realized his diverted gaze was one of respect. He no longer viewed Dorian as his child. He saw Dorian as a man of status, a man above him in station.

Dorian suddenly felt in need of air. 

There were no more scripts to follow.

“I will not comfort you for your treatment of me,” he said slowly, keeping steady.

“I’m not asking that.”

“You are,” said Dorian sharply.

Another intake of breath. Had Dorian never noticed this habit of his before? Was it new? Or had Dorian never seen it, because Halward had never shown him this side of himself? “The ritual—”

Dorian held up a hand.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice dangerous and low, shaking with rage. “Do not justify it.”

“I didn’t know what to do,” said Halward. His voice cracked, but he did not cry, just as Dorian would never cry in front of others, too drenched in pride. “I couldn’t be Gereon.”

And then Halward said something Dorian had never imagined, had never thought, had never considered, had never dreamed, had never known was an option.

“He was a better father to you than I ever was.”

The words left Dorian’s heart terribly, horribly blank. 

He leaned against a wall, his staff digging uncomfortably between his shoulder blades. Dorian and his father sat in silence, both men knowing that to be first to leave was to let go of pride, and both men knowing that was why they were in the tavern at all.

Finally, Halward let go. “I miss you, duckling,” he said, the words weighted. Dorian made a bitter, choking noise. If his father meant the term of endearment to be striking, he had failed. It only confirmed to Dorian that something had been permanently lost.

“I’m not going back to Tevinter,” said Dorian. He realized he sounded tired. “There’s work to be done here.”

Halward sighed, and Dorian wasn’t sure if he was resigned or frustrated. “I don’t understand it, but if you believe that to be true, then I suppose the whole affair has some worth.”

Dorian pushed himself off the wall. “Well. That was bracing,” he said briskly, reaching wildly for pithy detachment. It was a thin disguise. 

Slowly, Halward stood, and eased himself into the proper posture for an  _ altus _ . It was as much a disguise as Dorian’s sudden aloofness. “If I write to you, will you write back?” he asked tentatively.

There was a wall between Dorian and his father, made of the finest stone, crafted by masters. A door could be built, but it would take years of constant work, and Dorian’s hands would be left bloody and damaged.

His father’s hands were already bloodied from building the wall at all.

Dorian left without answering.

\---

The Inquisitor wanted to talk after Dorian left the Gull and Lantern. Dorian did not. He shrugged off her concern, and announced he’d like to leave Redcliffe.

The Inquisition still had business in the town, and it was suggested Dorian go back to their inn until he could travel with company. The Hinterlands were dangerous, especially for a mage. Dorian made a show of complying, but as soon as the Inquisitor left him, he packed his things and went to the stables.

Bull was waiting for him there. They stared at each other, Dorian defensive, Bull relaxed.

Dorian began to saddle his mount. “If you’re here to discuss what happened, then save us both time and take your leave. I’d rather not discuss it.”

“Don’t know a damn thing about what went down back there,” he said. “Just heard you were trying to leave. Figured I’d come with you. Take some time to ready the boys for the Storm Coast gig with the Qun.”

“Ah,” said Dorian, who knew very well the Inquisitor had realized Dorian had no intention of staying, and sent Bull to ride with him. “Just don’t expect me to be good company.”

“Fine by me,” said Bull. “Got a few things to think about myself.”

They rode out immediately. Bull was true to his word, and joined Dorian in his silence. Soon, night had fallen. Dorian showed no sign of slowing down for camp, and Bull did not press the issue. 

Dorian felt a pressing need to stay moving because if his body stilled, his mind would too, and he would be forced to remember the heartbreak on his father’s face. He was so focused on the task of not thinking that he didn’t notice the unnatural green glow of a Fade rift nearby, and he did not hear Bull’s warning shouts. 

He only realized something was wrong when a Despair demon appeared in front of him in a burst of freezing mist, coating Dorian’s throat with cold, turning his hair to ice.

Demons were creatures made from feeling, and their aspects bled from them, spilling onto whomever was near. The Despair demon brought with it a yawning, hollow emptiness. It settled deep in Dorian’s gut, smothering what was already there, taking his breath and his mind and his sense.

Dorian’s vision went white.

When he came back to himself, his hands were fists of flame, and the ground before him was scorched and ruined. The fire swirling around him dissipated, taking with it the last of Dorian’s mana, and he stumbled forward.

Bull was there in a blink to steady Dorian. He guided him back to his horse, and only let Dorian go when he had braced himself against his mount.

“I’m going to set up camp,” he said, impossibly gentle. “You just sit tight.”

Dorian did as he was told, too distant and shell-shocked to do much more. He remembered he had a small store of potions, and while he knew he should save them for a more dangerous situation, he found himself not caring. He took the lyrium and slowly came back into himself. 

He silently joined Bull in preparing a place to rest. He set Bull’s gathered kindling aflame with his magic, and threw grains and spices into the pot for dinner. Soon, Bull and Dorian had created something humble and comfortable.

Bull was controlled as always, his attention on Dorian but not aggressively so, giving him distance while still being present. When Dorian felt full and settled, he leaned back on his hands, and stared up at the stars.

“You deserve to know what that was about,” he said.

He told Bull everything, even more than he’d told the Inquisitor. He told him of the tenderness of his childhood, the later twisting and withholding of that comfort, the rift that resulted. He told him of Alexius in full, admitting that their bond went deeper than apprentice and tutor, that Alexius had left a gaping wound that Dorian had tended by drinking for a year straight. He told Bull of the imprisonment in his own bedroom. Then, he repeated everything his father had said to him just hours ago.

When he was done, Bull waited, ever patient, ever respectful. The fire had crackled down to embers, spitting out lazy sparks.

“You are a good man for listening to all that. Hardly something you can relate to,” Dorian said, watching the fire struggle to be its former self. He laughed bitterly. “Perhaps the Qun is correct in taking children away from their parents. None of my nannies would have hurt me so.”

Bull uselessly stoked the fire with a stick. Dorian watched, knowing he could build a new one with a thought, but not feeling any need. The cold night suited his mood. 

“I don’t know,” said Bull slowly. 

Dorian blinked up at him. Bull was focused on the fire. His face betrayed no emotion.

“When I found out the  _ bas _ raise their own kids, I thought, wow, that’s fucked up. My tama trained to be a  _ tamassran _ since she was a teenager, you know? It’s a hard job. You don’t want to give it to just anyone.”

Bull poked at the fire one more time, then set down his stick.

“Then I saw my own kid.”

Dorian looked at him with open shock. 

In spite of giving up on the fire, he was still staring at the embers, avoiding Dorian’s eyes. Bull had never done that before. He was always attentive, always centered on Dorian. Now he looked distant.

“You have a child?” asked Dorian.

Bull shrugged. “Kind of. First time I was on leave from Seheron, I got called to the  _ tamassrans _ —uh, different kind of  _ tamassran _ .  _ Tamassran _ means women’s work, and under the Qun, sex is a woman’s domain.”

Dorian scoffed. “Well. Yet another reason the Qun wouldn’t like me very much.”

“Being suited for women’s work has nothing to do with tits. Plenty of dick to go around.”

Dorian opened his mouth, then closed it, then tilted his head to the side. “Right,” he said finally.

Bull smiled a little. “Eh, we can talk about that later, if you want. This whole thing is only slightly related to the  _ tamassrans. _ I go where they tell me, and when I get there, there’s a  _ tamassrin _ wearing the sex healer knots, and then there’s this  _ beresaad _ guy, someone with a womb. Well built, strong as hell, could take a couple of hits and not even feel it. The  _ tamassrin _ gets us going, but tells me to finish inside her. I figured that’s what it was about. Two big guys make another big guy, you know?”

“Rather callous math,” said Dorian.

Bull finally looked at Dorian. “Figured you’d get that part.” 

Dorian thought of his mother, expressionless and stiff in her  _ altus _ finery, always leaving space between herself and her husband.

He nodded slowly. “I do,” he said.

Bull looked away again. It was disconcerting to talk to Bull without seeing his kind eyes, and Dorian fought the urge to place his hands on Bull’s cheek and turn him back. 

“Never saw her again,” said Bull, his voice low. “When she left she looked kinda, I don’t know. Blank.”

“I suppose she would,” said Dorian softly.

“Hard part was over for me. Whole other thing for her.” He paused. “They all had that look.”

Dorian blinked in surprise. “They?”

“Yep. Every time I was sent back to Par Vollen. A week of R&R and fucking every giant woman the Qun had lying around. Most of ‘em had that look. Blank. Knew that look. It was the look of someone honoring a demand of the Qun when it was the last damn thing I wanted to do.”

Dorian did not comment on Bull’s change of perspective. Dorian avoided vulnerability enough to know it when it was presented.

“Passed by the  _ imekari _ yards one day. There was the kid. Horns growing in like mine, had my nose. I had this thought, kinda, this feeling. Maybe an instinct. I wanted to jump into the  _ imekari  _ yards, take the kid, and run. Glad I didn’t. The hell do I know about raising a kid?”

Slowly, Dorian reached out, and took Bull’s hand in his.

“I think you would have been a good father,” he said.

Bull grunted, a bitter sound. “Maybe, maybe not. I’m sure the kid loved their tama as much as I loved mine. That’s something.”

They sat together in silence and connection, sinking further into each other, deepening their bond with unspoken brutal truths. Dorian shivered violently, groaned in annoyance, and waved his hand. A fire roared in front of them, heedless of the burned kindling.

“Thanks,” said Bull, long since used to Dorian’s casual use of magic.

Dorian gave into his wants and moved to face him, locking their eyes. He leaned forward for a kiss, embarrassingly tender. He pulled away.

“Thank you for telling me that,” he said, somewhat stiffly, unused to genuine declarations of his feelings. Skyhold was helping with that. Bull was helping with that.

“Qun’s been on my mind lately.”

“I suppose it would be.”

“Yeah,” he said.

Bull shifted both his body and his emotions, looking somewhere within himself to push away the feeling of fresh exposure and settle into a more familiar rhythm. He leaned forward and warmed his hands next to the fire. “Your dad let bullshit fuck up all that love. I say fuck him, he doesn’t deserve you,” Bull said, far more comfortably, with casual comradery. “But it’s harder than that, I get it, and you’re a fucking badass for talking to him, and you’ll still be a badass no matter what he pulls next.”

Dorian laughed. “Not the most delicate of compliments, but I am never picky when accepting praise.”

  
  


When Bull came back from the Storm Coast a  _ bas _ , Dorian sat with him through the first sleepless night, and the next, and the next. He knew what it was to reject a homeland, and to miss it desperately, and the neverending ache that came with it all.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

Emotional collapses are rarely neatly timed. They lie in wait like well-fed predators, indolent and vaguely amused. 

When Dorian returned to Skyhold, he drank. He drank the night after that. Nothing of note happened, aside from a handful of inappropriate comments that were made to certain male members of the Inquisition. He shouted, laughed, teased, and then he was carried back to his quarters by Bull.

He didn’t visit the tavern the third night. Dorian knew where that path led, and so did his father. That alone was enough to keep him away from his worst urges, even if Halward would never know. 

He had research to do in Skyhold, and people to protect out in the field. There was warm food and good conversation in Herald’s Rest, and he would miss it all if he focused solely on the ale. And, against all odds, he even had friends.

Weeks later, his father sent a letter, and he read it. There was some commentary on the success of the Inquisition, and it ended with an inquiry about Dorian’s well being. The rest was filled with Halward’s guilt. Dorian breathed, set it aside, and continued about his routine as if nothing had happened.

It was four days later that he lost his thin illusion of resilience.

—

There hadn’t even been a particularly notable event. It was incredibly cold that day, which always put Dorian in a certain mood. He found out his requisition for a new staff had been declined, and he’d have to continue with the slapdash stick made from cheap materials and incompetence the Inquisition had given him. Helisma stole his favorite pen, and when he asked about it she told him that hers had broken, he’d had two, and all the pens belonged to the Inquisition, so why did it matter? When Dorian asked to switch she did it with such a complete lack of interest that his heart clenched for all the mages made Tranquil under the chantry Templar’s abusive tyranny. He told her to keep the pen.

He began to sort through all the Tevinter lineage records that had been sent to Skyhold via Leliana’s connections, seeking Corypheus’s name. One journal laid out the Alexius line in great detail. Dorian set it aside. He’d deal with it later.

By the time he had completed his work it was dark out, Dorian was starving, and he desperately needed a drink. He went straight to Herald’s Rest, and found it disgracefully closed. Sera told him Cabot was taking the day off to celebrate his husband’s birthday, and he didn’t trust anyone else with the key to his bar.

The thought of eating the free but putrid Fereldan sludge served out of the mess hall churned Dorian’s empty stomach, so he found some stale bread and retired to his room, where a bottle of whiskey was ready on a shelf. It was of a fine make, bartered with Josephine for a night of earnest schmoozing with her nobles. He poured it into a snifter, part of a decanting set salvaged from a ruin in Emprise du Lion. Morbid, but one made do in Skyhold. It was all very proper, and very nostalgic. It had been some time since Dorian enjoyed something of quality.

He sipped, and he thought, and he remembered his father’s words.

_ Gereon Alexius was a better father to you than I ever was. _

He sifted through a haphazard pile of papers on his desk, and found his father’s letter. He was surprised he hadn’t thrown it out yet. He thought he had. 

He read it.

He read it again.

And again.

—

Dorian had a box in his room, simple, unadorned, meant to store grain. If one were to try and fuss with it, they would find it impossible to move, and completely sealed shut.

He whispered a word in ancient Tevene. The box swung open, revealing all the coin he’d reserved for his birthright. He’d have it back. He was a Pavus in the end, and nothing could change that.

There was one more thing in the box, something that had been very tricky to steal and stow away. Alexius’ amulet, the  _ tempus fulcrumi  _ they had designed together.

He could never look at it without feeling a mix of both giddy pride and paralyzing fear. They had once been two men, known to be brilliant but not yet known as geniuses, discussing theories and testing scenarios for hours, ignoring reality until Livia ordered them to bed.

He set it aside. He’d seen the worst it could do, and he would never allow anyone else to have it. And yet, whenever he tried to destroy it, his hands shook and tears stung his eyes. He hoped one day to be ready.

He drank.

He drank more.

Dorian always made his worst mistakes when drinking raw spirits.

—

He wasn’t sure how he got to Bull’s door, but he knew why, and what he wanted. He banged at the door, over and over again, shouting Bull’s name.

Bull appeared with his pants held up with a fist, scowling. He didn’t look annoyed, but worried and cautious. When he saw it was Dorian at his door, those emotions deepened. He reached out with his free hand and placed it on the small of Dorian’s back, guiding him into his room without question. “Let’s get you some water.”

“No!” said Dorian. He lurched away, stumbling against the doorframe. “I am very drunk, and I need assistance with a rather difficult set of stairs.”

“Sure. Let’s sit down and talk about it.”

Bull opened the door wider, tilting his head toward his room. Dorian took a step back.

“It is of utmost importance you come with me,” said Dorian. He spoke slowly and was sure to enunciate each word, which only served to highlight his inebriation, not hide it. “There are so many damnable  _ stairs _ …”

“Where do you want to see, Dorian?”

He swayed from side to side, just slightly, enjoying the looseness of his body. “One Gereon Alexius, of course. I have already had a bad day, so I may as well make it the worst day of my life!”

“That’s not a good idea,” said Bull calmly. Dorian waved a hand at him.

“I have been wanting to see him for some time, and I will not be able to do so while sober. Conditions are perfect!”

“Dorian.”

“I don’t want to speak to him. I just want to see him,” said Dorian. “Allow me that.”

Slowly, Bull stepped out of his room, carefully closing the door behind him. He placed a steadying hand on Dorian’s shoulder, and met his eyes.

Bull had a way of _ looking  _ at a man, his eyes searching and then going still. It meant he was weighing all the things he knew about someone that they would not admit to themselves. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him, albeit grimly.

“I got you,” he said. 

“You would be the first to do so,” said Dorian.

—

The door to the prisons was unlocked. And why shouldn’t it be? There were only a handful of villains locked away, and few of them would get far in Skyhold. 

Visiting Alexius had always seemed too impossible a thing. He already had an Alexius he could visit, the Alexius of his memory, robust and smiling. 

That didn’t mean Dorian was not aware of Alexius’s reality, rotting beneath where Dorian made merry. It would hit him some nights, when he walked away from the tavern, or when the conversation died and his drink-heavy mind would wander. Alexius was so close to him, physically there, and it would be so easy to hear his voice again. The thought of that churned Dorian’s stomach.

_ Gereon Alexius was a better father to you than I ever was. _

Gereon Alexius was a shell of himself.

—

The walk down the stairs from the garden rooms was slow. The stairs were narrow and steep with nothing but a stone wall for bearing. Bull made sure they went slow, and kept them steady, never letting go of Dorian.

—

The prisons smelled like decaying plants. The air was damp. Mold grew everywhere.

Dorian thought of the nights spent in Alexius’s basement lab, a space designed to absorb magical energy from failed experimental spells, so heavily warded the Maker Himself could not penetrate its walls. It was close to the wine cellar, and on more than one occasion, Alexius would excuse himself and slip back in with something dark red and wonderful. They would sit on plush armchairs and drink. Alexius would listen to all of Dorian’s ambitious ideas with nothing even approaching judgement, just nodding, supporting him, offering him advice. 

He ran his hand down the stone walls, and missed those days terribly.

Dorian heard coughing from somewhere. The decay could get in the prisoner's lungs, and give them the death sentence they had allegedly been spared.

“We must speak to Josephine,” declared Dorian. 

“Of course,” said Bull. He squeezed Dorian shoulders comfortingly, asking no questions, offering nothing but acceptance.

Step by step they went. Every inch forward, Dorian focused on anything that wasn’t Alexius. His shoes were scuffed; he would have to fix that. The bottoms of his trousers were muddy. He would have to have them cleaned. He hadn’t had his staff blade sharpened in some time, and if he must be stuck using it until he could convince the Herald to get him a new one, he’d need to get it to Harritt. Trivialities. Normalcies.

Bull guided him through the dungeon. There was a giant hole in the ground with no barriers built around it. He tried to peer down to see what lay beneath, but Bull held him back without words, no chiding, no judging.

And then, Alexius.

Dorian made a sudden stop. Bull kept a firm grip on his shoulders.

Alexius slept, just as Dorian had assumed. As long as Dorian made no noise, Alexius would never know he’d been here.

His hair was long. He was unshaven. Alexius had always kept up appearances, until the ugly months after Livia’s death and Felix’s illness, when he had grown sick with grief. He hadn’t taken care of himself without Dorian or Felix’s urging until he and Dorian had become convinced they could cure the Blight. Then, he was too put together, too animated, firm in the belief he would do the impossible. He never knew which year was worse, the first with Alexius disheveled, or the second with Alexius obsessed.

Dorian’s eyes felt hot. His hand rose to wipe at the pooling tears, and then he jerked it back. Dorian would not cry, not now, not here. He blinked the tears away, but could not stop his breath from catching. Bull rubbed circles into his back.

Alexius stirred, and Dorian tensed. Was he waking? Had he sensed Dorian’s presence? 

Then he pressed himself into the prison walls, his back facing the bars that would contain him for the rest of his life. Dorian watched him breathe, and felt glad that he could not see his face, and hurt that he had not been acknowledged.

“Everything he did, he—he truly didn’t understand what he was doing,” whispered Dorian. “It was the time magic, you see. Reality stopped—stopped being reality, for Alexius. I tried. Oh sweet Maker, how I tried!”

“I know you did,” said Bull softly. “And the best damn thing you ever did for yourself was to stop.”

“Buggery wasn’t enough to hold his interest, hmm?”

Dorian snapped toward the source of the voice, almost losing his balance. Bull’s grip never faltered.

He’d almost forgotten about Crassius Servis. The Inquisitor had brought him home in chains, and he wore them like finery, like they were a temporary but beautiful discomfort to be shed when the night was over. He was so sure he could barter his way out of his bounds, soulless and empty enough to bargain anything he had with anyone who would take it.

He had screamed when the guards threw him in his cell, cursing the Inquisition, spewing hate against the Herald, calling her bitch and whore and any other word that diminished a woman. The Inquisitor made sure only female Templars were assigned to hold vigil outside his cell.

Servis sneered at Dorian through the bars of his cell. He was more alive than Alexius, more robust, and Dorian’s rage flared within him for the injustice of it all. Why should this man be so bold to keep his dignity when Alexius hadn’t?

Alexius remained still, his sleep undisturbed by the noise.

Slowly, Dorian pulled away from the cell. He stumbled toward Servis. Dorian’s eyes were clouded and his cheeks were a drunken red, but he matched Servis’s gaze with his own, apathetic and proud.

“Just leave him,” said Bull. Dorian swayed, overwhelmed and dizzy. He looked at Bull’s eye, searching for something there.

Servis began to chuckle, and then laugh, and then cackle like a mad man. “Oh, Pavus. Have you truly opened your legs for an ox? My my, how desperate are we!”

“At least he’s not in a cell,” slurred Dorian.

“Still the merry drunkard, then?” said Servis. “He ought to be. They all should.”

Then a soulless grin stretched over his face. He palmed his crotch over his trousers and began to slowly grind against his own hand.

“If you ever miss the proper cock of the peerage, you know where to find me. Give poor Halward some small mercy.”

The Templar observing jumped up and grabbed him through the cell bars. Bull said something to Dorian, but he did not register it. What grasp he had on the existing world was rapidly leaving him. He felt himself pitch forward. Bull pulled him up by his shirt.

He looked at Servis again. There was a man so unashamed in his evil, so greedy, he had allied with a violent cult with views he didn't even believe in, just to become richer. Dorian hated him in that moment, and that hate was free of guilt.

He smiled to himself, sloppy and aimless. “Oh, how glorious is the luxury of uncomplicatedly cruel men,” he said.

He woke up the next morning in his own bed, unsure of how he got there. He sat up slowly and looked around his room. His eyes fell on the  _ tempus fulcrumi,  _ placed on his father’s letter. 

Dorian picked up the fulcrum, lifted it over his head, and threw it on the ground as hard as he could. It shattered easily. He felt a jolt in the depths of his mana pool, like something had been returned to it. He knew Alexius felt it too. He hoped, in some small way, it freed him.

Then Dorian sat at his desk, took out paper and a pen, and began to write his father back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Knowing others read and enjoyed this project means a lot. Please feel to say hi on [tumblr](https://lilacsolanum.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/LilacSolanum), I am much less depressing on social media.


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